How I took Down a Plane Villain and Saved American Airlines Flight 622

Here’s the problem with flying when I have a deep suspicion of everyone I meet: I assume anyone could be a terrorist or an evil villain who plans on overtaking the plane.

Finally my suspicions paid off, because I’m pretty sure that I thwarted a villainous takeover of American Airlines flight 622.

I was at the airport for a trip to Chicago, casually waiting for the announcement I love so much: “It appears our plane is full and we will be asking for volunteers to check their baggage.”

Translation: free baggage check for anyone too cheap to pay for it, AKA moi.

My ears perked up in delight when the announcement was made, and I hastily hopped in line to be one of the selfless volunteers who sacrificed the comfort of having their luggage nearby for the greater good of her fellow passengers.

Then I noticed him.

He looked like a young Jeff Goldblum, dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck – classic villain gear. I don’t know much about being a villain but, were I to decide to become one, I know that my first order of business would be to hightail it down to the Gap so I can stock up on black turtlenecks. That’s standard issue villain gear, right?!

*Note: Not the airplane villain, but an actor re-enactment.

*Note: Not the airplane villain, but an actor re-enactment.

Then he spoke to the man behind the counter, “Excuse me, have you got a seat for me yet? I’ve been waiting for 40 minutes.”

And I shit you not, wiseass readers, this guy had an accent straight out of Transylvania. I half expected him to follow it up with “38, 39, FOURTY! FOURTY minutes I’ve been waiting! AHAHAHAAAAA!”

But to recap: he was dressed in all black, had a Transylvanian accent, and was not assigned a seat on this flight. Oh and was growing impatient that boarding had begun and he didn’t yet have a seat; clearly nervous that his plane takeover plans may be thwarted by a run of tourists, eager to see the Windy City and catch a glimpse of Oprah.

After I gleefully, I mean selflessly, handed over my luggage to be checked for free, I boarded the plane and sat down. I was in the window seat with no one yet sitting next to me. As the stream of people dwindled down, I excitedly began to suspect that I would get the row to myself, which was a relief because I had forgotten to use deodorant that morning and so had to buy some at an airport store. Unfortunately, when I sat down at the gate, I couldn’t quickly put it on because some British guy was sitting right across from me and I somehow felt a patriotic duty to represent America by refraining from calling his attention to my armpits. You’re welcome, America.

As I happily began to root around in my bag for deodorant, it happened. Mr. Transylvania took the aisle seat next to me. There was only one seat between me, and certain death.

As we began take off, I realized he was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. Not reading a magazine or anything, just sitting all calm. Like a total fucking villain.

I decided to do a little investigation to figure this guy out. So I slid my People magazine across the seat and casually said, “You’re welcome to read my People magazine. I know it’s not a very manly magazine, but if you’re at all interested in reading about how Mischa Barton came back from a nervous breakdown, it’s all yours.”

He looked at the magazine and then back up at me, clearly pondering how he should react in this situation. He must have decided it better to appear normal and not raise suspicions, so he gave a quick thanks and grabbed the magazine.

And then flipped right past the fucking article about Mischa Barton. That’s it, I was on to him.

“Light traveler?”, I asked, non-chalantly flipping through Elle.

“I forgot to bring a magazine,” he answered, “I was waiting for a seat assignment.”

“Ah,” I replied, “Last minute flight?”

“No,” he continued, “when I bought the ticket, it didn’t assign me a seat.”

I eyed him suspiciously and continued, “That’s too bad, I was able to choose my own seat. Were you not given that option?”

“No.”, he replied confidently, intently studying a picture of Giselle Bundchen and Tom Brady at the park with their kids. This guy was good.

Not long after take off, he went straight to the bathroom. I braced myself; clearly airplane-overtaking heists begin in the bathroom, where you can hide your heist accoutrement more readily. Not long after he got up, a man who looked like a stockier Bruce Jenner stood up, dressed all in black. Shit. Clearly he’s working with Mr. Transylvania. He’s wearing the uniform, and we all know Bruce Jenner is one black turtleneck and a white fluffy cat away from looking exactly like a villain.

It wasn’t long before Mr. Transylvania came back and took out a laptop from the overhead compartment. So he DID have in-flight entertainment, dirty liar. As he opened up some bogus PowerPoint presentation about glass production, complete with glass-strength testing videos, and pretended to be immersed in the world of glass, he casually turned and asked what the weird tray/box-like thing in the seat between us was. I had just been wondering the same thing and realized that it was the perfect hiding place for plane-overtaking tools. He was on to me being on to him.

I grabbed the side of it and yanked up with all my might saying, “Let’s just SEE what it is!”. It didn’t budge. It was some weird tray thing for drinks and it was bolted down. He gave me a puzzled look as I slumped back into my chair, muttering something about a tray for extra drinks.

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Suspicious tray

He went back to making his fake charts and graphs about glass, as if he was fooling anyone. I mean really, glass has to have been around for like, a thousand years; what groundbreaking stuff is he coming up with?

A glimpse of his fake charts and graphs about glass.

A glimpse of his fake charts and graphs about glass.

The problem is, I then had to pee terribly, but did not want to go back to the bathroom he had been in. Any woman will tell you that life is a constant effort to keep unwanted people and things out of your lady parts. Anyone who knows me knows that I live in constant fear that a snake, rat, or other unwanted thing will come up out of the toilet while I’m going. I constantly have to peak down while I’m peeing in order to thwart any possible animal attacks, and keep my hoo-ha bite-free.

What if Mr. Transylvania planted something from his heist tool collection in the toilet? Like an electronic snake programmed to shoot out of the toilet the minute it detects someone is going?!? It’s probably called something all villain-y like the “Vag Badger 3000” or, the “Lady Part Prod.”

Note to any sex toy designers reading this: if I see the “Vag Badger 3000” or the “Lady Part Prod” now show up in adult stores, I will straight up sue your asses for stealing my idea. You’ll come to know me as the “Wise-ass-blaster.” (Don’t use that one either)

I finally lost the argument with my bladder, as my bladder can be surprisingly persuasive.

All went fine in the bathroom, no electronic snakes bursting out of the toilet. I probably should address my fear of toilet violence with a trained professional at some point. Maybe then I can also address my fear of an airport toilet pulling out my insides after I flush it, although in my defense, I totally remember reading about that happening when I was a little girl.

Why did my childhood serve to make me develop such an intense fear of toilets?

When I got back to my seat, I looked over at Mr. Transylvania’s laptop and saw that he was now watching a movie. As I zeroed in on the actors, I realized he was watching “Taken”. Great. I could now picture him calmly looking over at me and telling me in his creepy Dracula accent that he has a very specific set of skills, before pulling me, screaming, from my seat.

When the flight attendants arrived with their drink trays and asked me if I’d like a drink, I calmly ordered a glass of wine, but made a point to open my eyes really wide, and look from the flight attendant, to Mr. Transylvania, and back at her again; silently signaling that he was suspicious. She smiled and nodded. She totally got me.

After she gave me a glass of wine, she placed one down on the tray next to Mr. T. He looked up to say he didn’t order it, but she enthusiastically pointed at me and said, “She bought you a drink.”

What?! NO! I was trying to tell her that he is planning to overthrow the plane! Mr. Transylvania looked over at me and smiled a “thank you.” Great. Now he thinks I’m hitting on him. He’ll probably take me with him to wherever he’s hijacking this plane and I’ll have no choice but to fall in love with him like Patty Hearst did with her attackers. As I was silently imagining poor Calm-ass Husband reading the news that his beloved wife had been kidnapped to Transylvania and was probably not ever coming home, my lack of sleep the night before made my body betray me, and I promptly fell asleep.

What seemed like 15 minutes later, I felt a soft touch on my arm and opened my eyes to see Mr. Transylvania peering down at me. “We landed,” he said, in his villain-y accent. I bolted up and realized we were on the ground, unharmed. I looked over at Mr. T for signs of anger that his plane heist plans had been overthrown by wine and trashy tabloids, but he was already hightailing it down the aisle with his carry-on. Probably to try and overtake another plane after failing to overtake this one.

Nice try, pal, but you’re never going to overtake a plane on my watch.

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Happy Birthday to My Sister Wife

I have a few sister wives. Mind you, they are for me, not Calm-ass Husband. Believe it or not, I have more introverted than extroverted tendencies, so I like to keep a few close friends rather than a hundred acquaintances. Mainly because I like to stay drama-free and low maintenance and, sorry ladies, most women are not a low drama people. When I meet someone I like, I tend to love them right away because I can tell they’re my kindred spirit. So I tend to take my kindred spirits as sister wives.

Today is the birthday of one of my beautiful sister wives, and to honor it, I’ve come up with 5 of my favorite things about her:

1. She’s stabby. If people piss me off, I tend to get annoyed and want to stab them. She’s the same way. I can think of 3 people off the top of my head that I know she’s stabbed in her head at least 290 times.

2. She let me touch her boobs. ‘Nuff said.

3. She says the word “cunt” with such reckless abandon, that I’m pretty sure she’s on NOW’s list of particularly egregious women. Right next to my name.

4. She buys wine in bulk at the liquor store across the street from her office. How fucking classy is that?

5. She’s just as allergic to kids as I am. Nothing makes me spring a lady boner faster than seeing my sister wife get annoyed at a screaming child nearby.

Sister Wife, I love you to the moon and back! I hope your birthday is a drunken fuck-fest. Muah!

The Homeschooling Epidemic: How Homeschooling Mom Bloggers are Making Me Seriously Concerned About the Country’s Future Adults

Homeschooling seems to be as much of a rising trend as going gluten-free, or naming your kids any name with a suffix that rhymes with “ayden”. I believe it is a trend made popular from the rising mom-on-mom war crisis I reported not long ago. It’s an idiot’s war, to say the least.

Sidenote: I recently found out that the word “idiot” used to be the old term for the mentally disabled, before being replaced with today’s more popular term, “retard”. “Retard” is now taboo, so I’m not sure if “idiot” is also taboo, or if we can still safely use it? Also, if we are phasing out “retard”, once the new replacement word is phased in, will “retard” be allowed back in the rotation, like idiot was? Or is this word retired forever? My dad works with the mentally disabled, so I asked him what they call each other. Surprisingly, they call each other “retard,” and are offended when a peer calls them “idiot”. So I’m wondering if we aren’t waging war on the wrong word? It seems like we never even bothered to ask the mentally disabled which word offends them most, and I find that to be a complete lack of consideration for their feelings, as well as blatant disregard of their intellectual and emotional ability to decide these things for themselves. Frankly, I’d like us to stick with one word, so I don’t have to constantly stay abreast of which words I’m not allowed to use. Sticking with one taboo word makes things much more efficient.

Back to homeschooling.

I’m all for homeschooling. In some cases. In fact, my mom homeschooled my youngest brother. My mom is also a Stanford-educated attorney. The homeschooling moms I’m seeing in the blog-world are continuation school….at best.

Unfortunately, these barely-educated women (who’ve taken it upon themselves to pass their partial-knowledge on to their children) have found the world of blogging. The blogging world has afforded anyone with a computer and an Internet connection the ability to spout-off anytime they want. Case in point:

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Moms who blog and homeschool frequently seem to have a passing acquaintance with the English language. For example,  Jamie from DIY Home Sweet Home gives these tips:

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For fuck’s sake*, would a little punctuation kill you? You could probably throw a handful of commas at your blog, let them fall where they will, and it will make more sense than it does now.

* Fuck’s sake: Notice the apostrophe, Jamie, noting that the sake belongs to “fuck”. Punctuation is brilliant.

I found Jamie’s blog through Pinterest and, after reading her tips and wondering what high school freshman was writing the blog, wandered over to her bio:

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Of course she’s an entrepreneur, because every goddamn mom blogger out there is calling themselves an entrepreneur. Sorry, “momtrepreneur”. Listen, making a few bucks through sponsored links on your blog content that, let’s face it, isn’t groundbreaking, doesn’t make you an entrepreneur. By that standard, anyone who’s bothered to clean out their closet and sell their old crap at a consignment shop could call themselves an entrepreneur.

Entrepreneur seems to be a word that is thrown around a lot these days. I don’t think half of the people out there, proclaiming themselves to be an entrepreneur, know what it actually means.

Forbes defines “entrepreneur” as: “those who identify a need— any need —and fill it.”

I hate to break it to you “momtrepreneurs”, but: a million blogs, each spitting out the same tutorial for crappy thrifty homemade skirts that only other mom-bloggers would wear, or “healthy” snacks for kids that, in actuality, have the nutritional value of a Lunchable, is not fulfilling a need. You’re just the RC to cola’s Coke. Or cola’s Pepsi. Or cola’s Jarritos. Or cola’s Jones.

Now write a blog about how I can successfully have a child and not have to raise it full time, only having it on holidays to keep friends and relatives from constantly asking me when I’m going to have a baby, and you have a winning blog.

Start a successful business of volunteers who take on full-time children that aren’t even theirs, only giving them back to their biological parents for short periods of time, namely calendar holidays, and you can call yourself a “momtrepreneur”.

Darling Danielle over at the Blissful and Domestic blog is another mom blogger who homeschools. Here is a selection from her blog:

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What is it with homeschooling mom-bloggers and their aversion to punctuation?

P.s. Danielle:

“Every Day” means, “each day”. “Everyday” means something that is commonplace, such as, “This is my everyday jacket.”

I especially love that this is from an excerpt she wrote ABOUT homeschooling.

Look, I’ll be the first to tell you that editing your own work is tough. That’s why real writers have editors. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone back to an article I’ve written, even though I’ve proofed it several times, and thought to myself, “Great, I look like a goddamn (insert word that isn’t “retard” but denotes the same sentiment); how did I miss that?”. And sometimes, I’m just lazy about it. Hell, just last week I accidentally wrote that Violet the Screaming Dog is a little “stalky,” when I really meant that she’s a little “stocky”. To be fair, she can be pretty fucking creepy at times. Sometimes I wake up to her just sitting there, staring at me. And try as I might, I can’t get the Marin County Courts to grant me a restraining order against a dog. They’re all, “Stop wasting our time, we have real crime to deal with.” And let’s face it, Violet would probably just ignore an order of restraint, probably citing “lack of ability to read,” and “lack of opposable thumbs to hold the paperwork”. What a dick.

But yeah, I’ll admit it, typos constantly sneak past me when I’m proofing my own work.

But do you know the difference between me and mom bloggers who homeschool ? I’m not writing a blog about educating children, and littering said blog with terrible spelling and grammar. I’m not taking it upon myself to be the sole educator for a growing brain. For shit’s sake (pop quiz Jamie: why is that apostrophe there?), if you’ve taken it upon yourself to actually be THE educator in the life of your children, get your shit together.

And while we’re at it: shouldn’t you have to prove to the state that you can academically function at the level of a high school graduate before you can be in charge of schooling your own kids? Or are the current regulations some kind of fucked-up, retroactive, “no adult left behind” plan that hopes to subtly teach the parents as they teach the kids?

Either way, if you’re a homeschooling parent who is: a) competent and, b) tired of the stigma that goes along with homeschooling your kids, perhaps take gals like Jamie and Danielle under your wing. Help them out so they don’t continue to perpetuate that stigma.

Is there a homeschool for homeschool parents?

The Mrs. Cunt Fungus Saga Continues: How to Stop Your Nosey Neighbors from Snooping Through Your Trash

Many of you may remember my neighbor, a lady I affectionately call Mrs. Cunt Fungus. Mrs. Cunt Fungus is the cunt down the street from me who insists on making snide and passive aggressive comments about my dogs, blissfully unaware of the fact that I will cut a bitch for messing with my dogs.

Well it had been a blissful few months without so much as a peep from Mrs. Cunt Fungus and her life partner, Mrs. Sloppy Slit. Until today.

See, Calm-ass Husband and I recently ordered a small dumpster to clear our house of unneeded stuff. I love days when we get rid of stuff. It’s so cleansing.

But leave it to Cunt Fungus and Sloppy Slit to ruin this beloved time for me.

Calm-ass Husband came home from work early today, to meet a repairman who was coming by to repair our leaky washer. When he pulled up to our house, he found Sloppy Slit in our driveway, looking through our fucking dumpster. She understandably looked shocked, likely expecting that she would get away with her shameless dumpster diving in the middle of the day, in the middle of a work week.

CAH got out of his car and gave her a “WTF?” look, and she went on to say how she is a “recycler,” noticed the stuff we were throwing away, and would like to keep a few things we tossed. CAH, being nice and calm, cleaned the stuff off and gave it to her. Then called me to tell me what happened, betting that I’d have a less rational response.

He was right. He knows me well.

But I decided to be a bigger person and do the rational thing. Not having the contact information for Cunt Fungus and Sloppy Slit, I contacted our HOA, relayed what happened, and expressed my concern over neighbors possibly hurting themselves on broken glass and loose nails if rummaging through our trash. The HOA president responded with an equal level of concern, said she’d contact our property managers, and have them take care of it.

Then I went home, found 6 condoms left over from my and CAH’s days of dating, filled them with Cetaphil face cleanser, and strew them and the wrappers all over the surface of our trash.

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The “Get Rid of Nosey Neighbors Kit”. Yeah, I’m a lucky girl.

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If anything, they’ll be concerned about Wes’s hydration, considering, if they’re keeping track, these condoms appeared in the last 12 hours. I overdid it on that 3rd one from the bottom. That’s a quintuplet load.

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The staged “evidence”

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No corner of our dumpster was left untouched.

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I made sure that the “mother load” was front and center.

So, Cunt Fungus and Sloppy Slit, have fun rifling through my  and my husband’s staged night of fun. We made it extra creamy for you.